Peter screwed his single glass into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and
examining the muffin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast.

"Try again," he remarked.

"It's worse than I thought." The big man looked at his friend out of the
corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The
other finished his tea and lay back in his chair.

"Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants
to sell her pictures."

Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into
the fire.

"She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when
he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!"

Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a
moment's silence before the latter continued--

"Tom didn't leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy;
he's at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her
to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn't bear to part with them.
Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It's a bad time for
selling, isn't it, Stephen?"

"The worst."

"What do you advise?"